Timshel
by katiefreakinpotter
Summary: Post TF- John is taking Sherlock's "absence" hard; The story flashes back between John now, Sherlock now, and the pair of them before the fall.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: **Hello, okay so this Fic is named Timshel, from the Hebrew word phrase meaning "Thou Mayest" or "You have your choices". Some of you may know it as the song by Mumford and Sons -this is an inspiration based (loosely) from that song-. Whenever I listened to it I had a scene go off in my head, so I figured I might as well share it? This _is_ AU, though I'm going to try to keep it as close to canon as I can. Cool. Here's the prologue! Oh, also: **Minor Trigger Warning**- implications of suicide. Okay.

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><p>Ice shot through his nerves quicker than lighting, his toes curled together in shock of the contact. He felt his pulse throb in his fingertips as his hands lay limply by his side. His mind as numb as his feet. Another step. Breath hitched. Eyes closed. Another small step. Ankle deep. Nothing. John opened his eyes as he lifted his chin to take in the vista. The trees stood a still silhouette mounted above the lake side. He opened his lips to take in a quick breath as he took another step, his trousers soaking every inch in, they felt arctic against his paper skin. His body was shaking, but his conscious was the frozen metaphor that was the water beneath him.<p>

Still. He just stood, toes numb standing on top of the smooth and sharp pebbles alike. They say in a man's last moments he weighs upon past experiences, regrets, hopes, distant memories of loved ones. This all almost paled in comparison in John's mind at this very moment. He had no thoughts of his childhood or awkward teenage years, not his first love, nor his last. Not even the tall beautifuly boney man made a cameo, which is surprising for he is the reason John stands where he stands. No, not even him. An author and a phrase, that is what is John's mind. As a writer, these felt apropos; they were important to him: words, phrases, authors, motives, intentions. It's all beneath analysis.

Analysis , there, he made it. There was Sherlock Holmes. The tall, mysterious and boney man. Analysis. He remembers now.

Boy, Sherlock loved to analyze things. The first day they met. Analysis. That is what caught John: Sherlock's attention to detail. His ability to listen and analyze and connect ideas and people and events. It all seemed too familiar to John as it was the same concept in literature. He loved reading a book and analyzing the characters and motives, the syntax and content, who. what. where. why; it all was a thrill. Analysis. Uniquely thrilling to the pair.

Another step. This step was intention. This step wasn't numb, it was remembering. Why was he here. Who was he here for. What was he doing. He opened his mouth again, exhailing the littlest amount of heat his body was able to produce.


	2. Chapter 2

"Why today? ...It's been 18 months since our last appointment"

He was seeing his therapist again. 18 months. It sure felt longer. It was weird being in this atmosphere again. Monotone. The walls, the pictures, and the couches that fooled you into thinking they were warm and inviting, but when sitting, it felt cold and closed. Drained. It felt typical.

"You read the papers?...And you watch the telly?"

Why was it so goddamn hard to just let it all out. I mean, everyone knew what happened; everyone knew what he was going through. Then why did he need to explain it? But why _couldn't_ he say it? People die all the time. He'd lost aunts and uncles and grandparents before. Hell he watched comrades die all the time in Afghanistan. He watched people die in his hands for God's sake. People he'd known longer than Sherlock. People he had lived with longer than Sherlock.

The relationship John shared with Sherlock wasn't anything like the passing relationships he had with his fellow soldiers. It felt silly even admitting that to himself. Cliché. His relationship wasn't anything anyone had. Foolish. That's what He'd say. Downright foolish. But it sure felt true. They weren't romantically involved nor were they best friends, though that's the closest title John would settle on. It was as close to true as it could get. But it felt more.

"You know why I'm here...I'm here because..."

It had only been a week since The Fall. He swallowed the pestering lump in his throat. Why was he even here? What motivation drove him here? What part of him said 'A therapist sounds nice, I'll think I'll drop by for a visit so she can help me cope with the death of my best mate because it doesn't seem I can handle it on my own'?. God, he couldn't even say his name without practically sobbing. "My…my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, he's dead" he said, each word shaking as his throat closed up, trying to keep the words and thoughts in; it's a lot easier to feel numb.

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><p>"You're a damn fool, Sherlock"<p>

Mycroft frowned, the lines of his face sinking with concern. He was sitting diagonally from his younger brother in one of the limos allowed to his business as "The British Government", as Sherlock refers it as.

"It was necessary, Mycroft" the detective spoke fluidly, spacing his words out to express the perfect amount of annoyance. "Until those spies are gone, I am dead. To you, to the country, to John. Dead. I'm just another skull to Anderson's collection. And unless you want to replace me with your dead body, not to mention and John's as well…" he trailed off, raising his brow and tightening his jaw in frustration.

"Well what are you going to do then? You can't expect to come back from your grave good as new. You didn't leave this world as a private detective, Sherlock. You left as an infamous celebrity." he added, shuffling in his seat.

The vehicle hauled to a stop, signaling the Holmes' that they had arrived. Sherlock hadn't recognized the venue. It wasn't near people. Good. Sherlock needed time to figure out what the hell he was going to do. He'll need his forensics. Microscope. Tools. He would have to do without his skull. If John had noticed it was missing, he would know something was wrong. A new skull perhaps? Not the same. Damn. Being dead was a lot harder than anyone would understand. His violin was not an anomaly. It was the only thing in this world that could help him think and make him remotely happy. Though being happy was near to impossible at this state. The only people he loves, threatened.

"Welcome home"

It was a house, two stories, brown brick. It was old. The gate that blocked the entry way was black and rusted; it served no functional purpose anymore. The entire lawn was covered in weeds and shrubbery. It was small. Isolated.

"It will do"

Sherlock led himself up to the faded black door and turned the brass knob allowing himself in his semi-permanent abode. Needless to say, the outside was misleading. The interior was newly remodeled. By Sherlock's judging it had finished renovation a week ago today. The accent to every white room was gold. The lining to the furniture was gold. The wooden floor shined subtle speckles of gold. The ceiling was gold. The knobs to every doorway were gold.

"I called in a favour. They finished it a week ago. It was going to serve a more…national purpose. Well, seeing as you are my brother I figured…well you know"

Mycroft stood behind his brother, arms folded, posture impossibly perfect. He always stood like this near Sherlock. Closed. Stiff. It's funny what childhood memories still affect a man.

"Well yes, thank you. I'll need my lab materials and violin."

Sherlock took a step around the corner, peering at the wooden staircase that led to the golden-upstairs. He continued to tour the house until he found himself familiar. The table in the kitchen will suit his lab materials, and the main room, well he could adjust for the time being. He walked back to the front door to where Mycroft stood, still as he was minutes ago.

"Sherlock, I…It may not be my place to say this, but you're going to have to tell John."

"Tell him what exactly?" He was focused on his brother's expression, studying his breath. His eyes, the way they moved, the way he twitched his fingers. Concern.

"Sherlock, John is seeing his therapist again. We've maintained surveillance. He concerns us as much as we are concerned about you."

Why was Mycroft so stiff? By now he had usually moved his neck. No. Only his mouth and the occasional twitch of his fingers. "John cannot know I am alive. Until we get rid of those spies and whoever else Moriarty had it in with, John's life is at risk. If he figures out I'm alive, his mood _will _change reasonably. His dunce of a therapist will notice, there will be some concern. Concern leads to figuring out what the hell is going on. Therefore I advise you to take your mind off of John and me for that matter. It's for his safety."

Mycroft gave a simple nod and a twitch-of-a-smile, turned on his heel and proceeded to exit Sherlock's new residency.

"I'll have your things delivered first thing tomorrow morning. Good evening brother."


End file.
